


The one

by Devian



Series: Jason Todd fics on Tumblr [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light Angst, References to Depression, Rejection, Unrequited Love, it's actually pretty light
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22422967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devian/pseuds/Devian
Summary: And with alcohol, memories inevitably come. There’s silence, there’s stares that promise much more than what’s actually shown; but nothing can be said when everything else is said and done. It’s been three years after all, and everyone is pretty much over that old story, right?AKA Reader confessed to J. Todd three years ago. Things didn’t turn out okay.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Reader, Jason Todd/Reader
Series: Jason Todd fics on Tumblr [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1613644
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	The one

**Author's Note:**

> REQUESTS ARE OPEN: https://imaginedcreaderinsert.tumblr.com/

Bruce Wayne couldn’t trust anyone, but the (L/N)’s were pretty damn okay; or so Jason thought when he was a kid. They were one of those old money families, but they were never rude nor disrespectful. Some of their views were pretty conservative, but Dick said once that they could have turn out for the worse had it not been for the adoption of the jewel of the family, (Y/N). No one never really questioned the biological apparent differences, as evident as they were; but neither Dick nor Jason ever really commented on it. “Blood is thicker than water” they used to say, but just as it didn’t seem to matter much to (Y/N), it never really made any sense to the Robins. She was two years older than him when they met, and as expected of any girl of her age, her eyes always searched for Dick’s, who kindly and just for the amusement usually looked back.

Jason never really quite understood the purpose of galas until he saw her giving her first actual speech, a few months after her first debutante ball. It had been a pretty big deal around Gotham, seeing as she was very soon interested in politics and in social reforms in Gotham, specially on educational and “bad” or districts of dubious reputation. Her eyes were transfixed in something much more far away the public, and her hands had been shaking uncontrollably before getting up the stage. She had been looking over her small flashcards, and even if it had been “old big brother” Dick the one massaging her should, in an attempt to calm her down, her last shy smile had been directed at him, not Grayson. That had made him feel special, and well, it’s not like you two didn’t get on well; the relationship carried on was merely filial, annoying each other. Dick had been too old to keep up with those antics, and he didn’t have really the time except for a few flirty and innocent exchanges. It had been left then for both of them to keep up like that, and it had been amusing, funny: she was witty, quick, sharp… It was entertaining to say the least, but the first time he saw her terrified like that, just seconds before getting up that big stage all by herself, something in his heart ached. But their relationship had never been like that, and he was a bit awkward like that by that age.

Once she had been done and she had been so well-received, she had taken enough photos, praised, acclaimed, her legs almost gave out once in the shadows. He had been the one to catch her, and she had shyly smiled, stumbling on her words and excited-happy-euphoric. Many emotions, some which he never had the opportunity to experience as a Robin and Jason Todd, which he unconsciously treasured, he laughed at while she got embarrassed and tried to lightly smack him. Maybe it had been nothing more than a mutual crush, or maybe they in origin been truly destined to end up together: they way they bickered, could keep up with each other antics could have been considered an early sign. But those things don’t’ really matter anymore, do they? Not once he’s dead and done for.

* * *

They were hard years. The Wayne family had been close to yours and losing your father in a shooting months after Jason’s death had been too much for your poor and fragile heart. He was never really expressive; instead he compensated it with expensive jewelry, dresses and gifts that could make any girl cried. You tried to understand him, you really did: but you never fully got closure. And Jason devasted you: your childhood friend, the first actual person whom you shared some of your first memories, experiences like a sleepover, a pillow fight, alcohol tasting and a shy and awkward drunken kiss. He had been your first crush and maybe – maybe eventually it could have been much more, but now it doesn’t matter. That’s what you tell your therapist sometimes, with tears in your eyes, even when both of you are fully aware that you will never get over it, any of them. You don’t acknowledge the trauma, and for some time, half a year, you don’t really know how to continue: but you slowly get up. It takes some tries, some stupid mistakes (a razor, blood, crying) but someone hears you. It’s not someone you would expect to, but he with his own shine extends his hand and you slowly, with some relapses, eventually take it. And it slowly gets better, the pain subdues.

It never really dies, but there are no nightmares, and when it does get bad, he comes or invites you in. Bruce is not the same, and Alfred understands. There’s nothing wrong in entering his sheets and sleeping in his bed – and sometimes, when you think he doesn’t notice, you even escape to His room, the one that belongs to that presence that always looms over you like a protector and a constant reminder, and search for something of his to take with you, anything.

Anything to not forget him.

* * *

  
It’s difficult to explain. You don’t really understand it the first time they tell you, and you can’t believe it until you see it with your own eyes, but things do change, and you have no alternative but to accept it, even when you don’t see him the first time with your own eyes. Dick is affected, and Bruce is in shock, but Jason Todd is back alive and with a new identity: they open up their secret to you, being as close as you are to the family already, and-well. It’s a shock at first, but nothing you have to digest over for hours, since your mind seems to only concentrated on that figure which has hunt you for years in dreams, in impossible scenarios you’ve sometimes created where you grew old – and suddenly he’s in the same room as you are and you start to cry, to sob. You can’t stop, but he doesn’t try to: actually he doesn’t do anything but look at you, almost indifferently, and it hurts, but it’s a comfort to finally have him home.

Like you’ve always been waiting for him and suddenly you have him wrapped tight around comfortable sheets to never let him go. Finally, you can sleep.

* * *

—So did he-?

—No, he didn’t until at least five. Bruce didn’t wait for him this time, but he was worried. We all are, actually.

Your phone uncomfortably rests between your shoulder and your ear, and you know it’s dangerous, but you had to ask for him. Yes, you could have asked for Drumble to give you a ride to work, as it is expected of you, but you don’t really want to conform yet. It gives you some independence and sense of empowerment – and no, you are not saying your mum isn’t, but she’s never really been the same since your father passed away.

—Again? But what does he do?—There’s hurt in your voice, a sigh of exasperation. You can’t really fall asleep until Dick, Nightwing, tells you that he’s arrived safely into the manor. He’s still getting used to it, specially his old room which has never been touched – save from cleaning and dusting—. Just-just tell him to give me a call whenever he’s available. We were supposed to meet tonight, but I don’t know if we are still on for it. I’ve been trying to call him and-

—His phone might be dead. Don’t worry about it, I’ll ask him about it. Have you yet-?

—No, it’s too early—. You quickly answer. Life is great, you love your life at this moment and time: but you are too conscious of death, of sudden changes and it scares you to death what it might mean if you do that. Things haven’t been the same, and well, he’s now nineteen, you are barely twenty-one and Dick is twenty-six.

—It’s been more than half a year, and you two have been hanging out at his safe house-wherever the hell it might be in Gotham- for the last four months. Do you truly think-?

—Dick, I have to go, but yes, I just-don’t see him looking at me like that. Like when we were kids.

—Precisely, (Y/N), you were kids! You can’t expect-

You hang up the call, and sigh. You already know that, but you too know, you at least think, that he doesn’t look at you the way he’s supposed to. And you understand, you know-you know how hard he has it. You wouldn’t expect him to be any other way and you are not going to demand it. And well, it isn’t like he’s dating other girls or taking them home, in that sense you think. His late run-ins are just his ways of coping with his actual situation, and he’s just managing as well as he can.

Your knuckles are white while you drive, and you don’t notice until you release the steering wheel that you know, are aware of, the excuses you are giving him. But no, that’s not it: you are not really hoping for anything. You just want him to be happy.

But wouldn’t it be great to be happy together?

* * *

You have blurted it out and- _shit_ , he’s not saying anything. You didn’t expect him to anyways but- _but you kind of did_. And it hurts how he stops with the pizza midway to his mouth, his perfect and gorgeous mouth, slightly bruised from some nights before – it’s like he can’t eat anymore, he has lost his appetite.

In your head it was romantic, it was much better: the lights were dim and there was probably and orangey undertone making it more intimate, cozy; he was probably cuddling you and both of your eyes met. The moment demanded it, and you would slowly say it out, with hopes that he would too: you would know it as soon as his cold eyes would soften, just as they use to every time he comes in from the window, covered in sweat and-

—What do you mean “you love me”?—. You hate his cold tone, the way he says it like it’s foreign to him, he is detached from it. He is not confused; but he doesn’t understand it. Like it’s not something possible—. Wh- _how_? Since when?

His questioning gives out two things: one, he truly doesn’t expect it. You haven’t made it obvious so that he wouldn’t feel pressured, but this is the worst. And well, two, he doesn’t love you. You know it the moment his blue eyes crush yours, and it’s nothing like when you were twelve and he caught you in his arms. He was a bit breathless, a bit timid; and even when he wasn’t particularly talkative, you always knew he had your back, he was looking out for you. Now he’s only looking for himself – and so much, he didn’t even notice you looking out for him.

—I don’t know. Probably since forever, but I didn’t-I couldn’t know. I didn’t have the time to properly tell you, acknowledge it when I was a kid until you-

—But you wanted Dick. You’ve always wanted Dick.

TV is in the back, but it’s more of a white noise now that he’s said that. Has he always thought that, has he come back with that idea in mind? Were you so blind that you have let him think that, confirmed it unknowingly seemingly as you ran to him every time you had a problem? It wasn’t done on purpose, but these years-no. It can’t have been.

—I found him interesting when were kids, but he’s-God. He’s twenty-six, Jay. And-

—Well, it doesn’t-I mean. Ugh—. He rubs his neck before slumping into the sofa. The one where you’ve been until very late these last months watching stupid shows and movies, black and white movies that he missed and loves. You have shared a blanket, he has fallen asleep in your shoulder plenty of times, and he has always made sure you slept through all the night whenever you slept. Suddenly it’s uncomfortable, new to both of you: neither knows how to behave, move, or sit—. I mean, I just don’t see you that way. I may have at some point but not-not now.

He’s troubled. He feels very small in the sofa, you can tell; he’s looking for the corner to retract himself into and unconsciously hide. You stand up and make an attempt to search for your things and go, because you have fucked things up but-but you lost him almost four years ago. You can’t lose him again. Won’t without a fight at least.

—Look, Jay-Jason—. You correct yourself when you see the coldness in his eyes, how he doesn’t seem to really see you. It hurts. He doesn’t want you there. But you won’t give up. You sigh, coming up to him, until you are down on your knees on the carpet, your hand on the sofa and the space where his body is not. It takes you a bit to start talking, but he waits—. I love you. Not for what you were, or any idealization I have of you in my mind. I truly do feel that way about you, and genuinely care… Okay? Please, Jay, look at me.

He’s… Scared. And uncomfortable. Of course he is. Some feelings are still too overwhelming and being alive again – three years erased from his own mind, having passed him over like it’s nothing, a mere blink of the eye – it’s still something he cannot get used to. His own body is sometimes unknown to him, and he feels a strange disassociation of the self from time to time. It’s hard. It’s not him that’s in control, but a complete stranger that he vaguely knows, that sometimes moves like him, acts like him and speaks like him... But it’s not him. Or at least that’s how he has described it, when he’s tired enough and he needs to talk to someone, you being of course always close and available one call away. But now it’s like all of that is over.

—I love you. And that is going to be-it’s going to go on forever. I adore you, every part of your soul: and no, before you even dare, it’s not damaged—. He barely smiles, but it gives you strength to continue—. You are not damaged. Bad things have happened to you, that’s all, and that’s not your fault. You can take as much time as you need, I’m never going to pressure you. I just want to take care of you and make sure you are okay.

Pizza night is still on and thus you eat it all away, everything sealed with a peck on his cheek which he has conceded. And you like that. You smile and sit close to him, but he never attempts to touch you or move. It’s like he’s paralyzed by fear.

* * *

Life goes on, but he doesn’t come any closer. It hurts you, because he actually starts to avoid you at times. It’s a severe accusation, but you catch him red-handed when one night he excuses himself away with the pretext of a stakeout which will probably take him a week, disappearing for a few days… And when Tim invites you over, he’s there, going down the stairs like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t even try to hide it. You cry in the bathroom for fifteen minutes before excusing yourself for the night – and things don’t get better after that.

You feel like you’ve lost him for a second time, and everything this time is your fault.

* * *

He comes to your birthday and you assume that’s a good thing. After two months out of your life, two months where you cry and isolate yourself totally from the rest, he seems to finally come around, apologizing. He doesn’t give you any answer, and as you’ve promised, you don’t pressure him into that. He is relieved, and you are so scared of losing him one more time that you try to be good and stay a good friend. Your heart aches, most often than not now that you start going out into bars: yes, you have a really good time when you play darts or some pool, but whenever a girl tries to enter into the conversation, flirt, you feel like vomiting. It’s not jealousy since this would meant you had a chance from the start at it, but it really is the way his eyes move around their bodies, interested: he’s never looked at you that way. You are just the friend, and he will probably never move past that; but still you try, truly, to be a good friend.

Dick pities you, comforts you often; Jason doesn’t know, but you think he wouldn’t care anyways. Nightwing is settled down anyways; he has been for some time, and you give him advice, but it’s mostly him that tries to make you laugh, feel better about the situation. Trying to love him hurts you, but you love him too much to give up. Still, you don’t want him to be that troubled again, and worse than that, be the source of all his problems. So instead you make him laugh, you go to the movies from time to time, and play some arcade, eat some pizza; and everything is still the same.

* * *

—It’s a stupid gala anyways. Who the hell in Gotham cares that it’s Tim’s nineteenth birthday?

—Dumbass, he’s your-oh, forget it, you are too drunk. You wouldn’t understand.

— _You_ wouldn’t understand!

You both laugh, but don’t really know why or what about. It’s been two years and you are close, terribly so; Jason is at a better place and that makes you incredibly happy. He doesn’t wake up in cold sweat anymore and he can sleep five hours straight. Sometimes he even stays in until late in bed on Sundays: you two talk all morning and can hear his bed creaking, for your stupid reassurance. Those are the best days.

—Why is the world so unstable? Everything is jumbling and-

—Don’t shout! They are going to catch us!—. You shout, unknowingly, catching his arm while you stumble forward with the carpet of the hall. It’s quite empty, but still you shouldn’t be sneaking. It’s a family event.

—You know what I got for my birthday? A fuckin’ family dinner, (Y/N)! Just like it sounds, no alcohol or cussing allowed. And definitively no heavy tipping like tonight!

—What!? No, no way!—. Your voice is loud again. And you were present in that family dinner, you sang him a happy birthday with the others and the ridicule hats that Dick made everyone wear—. Oh, wait, you did have a terrible birthday!

—I know!

You’ve both have raided Bruce’s private alcohol collection when no one was looking. You started at the bar, as usual, heavily drinking: and when Dick didn’t let you, you both moved outside, with the pretext of getting some air before going to the Bat’s own bar. And now the ground, the world moves and you don’t really know how to stand up straight.

Both of you grasping onto the other somehow make it to one of the multiple rooms, a private living room apparently; it’s smaller, and the fire is crackling. The place is spacious, and there’s some sofas that look terribly comfortable. You help yourself until there and just slump like you are dead, slightly jumping when he imitates you on the other side of the furniture.

—Oh my God, come closer, that was just one time!

—What are you talking about?—. He genuinely asks, like he doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t! You roll your eyes back, exasperated.

—The one time I tried to kiss you. Don’t worry, message received; I won’t try!

Just mentioning it makes you want to cry a bit. It had hurt like hell, specially when you had spent such a special holiday away from Gotham, near France. After a particularly hard night of partying and drinking, you had tried to kiss him at dawn. First he moved his face, but later he conceded; and only when things were getting heated, he had stop you, once you had started to remove you dress, more ready than ever. For that night only you hadn’t exactly demanded his heart and were happy enough with his body and whatever lust he stored and wanted to liberate on your body. But that hadn’t happened. You had humiliated yourself in front of him, and in your black bra you had slowly started to dress yourself up, him trying to look at some other place like he had never seen a naked woman before. Worse than that, like if you were his sister, something that he could not dare to look at.

—It’s not that, (Y/N), I hadn’t even-

—Oh, absinthe!—. You purposefully exclaim, getting up to get it, not very far from the center of the room where they lay. You use your mouth to open it, and it does get open: you both celebrate, drunk as you are, cheering fully for it.

Talking get easier, specially the more you move towards the fire, until you are both laying in the carpet almost practically in front of it. He looks at you under a different light, and he seems to actually take the time into observing your curves and soft features, like he has never observed you before. This is a first, and thus you do not comment on it. In fact, you try to avoid it.

—You have a very pretty beauty mark here.

—Where?

—Here.

He signals it with his index near one of the sides of your chin. His finger almost obliges you into levelling up your head, showing it to him: your neck is exposed and vulnerable to him, and he looks at it briefly before letting your head down. His touch had been soft, delicate; not like other times where it had been casual whenever he took an eyelash off your face or some dust from your shoulders. This time he had been tracing a trail, a way from your neck to the mark and after, his contact had lingered.

—What?—. You ask, confused; he seems silent and slightly pensive. Is it something about your makeup? The mark itself? For the very time you are slightly nervous to be alone with him. You had been in the past, but after so many months of obviously not getting anywhere, everything had toned down and it had become casual. There were never special hidden intentions behind.

—Nothing, I just remembered something. It was a couple of years ago, when you told me how you felt about me—. It’s something casual, like it doesn’t bother him. And well, you suppose it didn’t matter to him. He never tried to bring up that night back and you didn’t want to humiliate yourself again like that, not receiving any answer back. It had really hurt back then. The worst thing is that you can still feel the pain like a thorn that never really left your heart—. You said you would love me forever. Is that still true?

It might be alcohol. It must be the alcohol; you rationalize when he brings up that horrible topic you’ve been running from for at least a year. You get rid off your high heels, dumping them near the fire like you want them burnt. He shrugs, really, like he wants to make it clear that you are not forced to answer but you kind of are. You sigh.

—Yes. Forever and ever. That’s how long I said I loved you. But you never said it back.

You are drunk, or you at least protect yourself with that lie in between. You have been too good with him anyways; Dick always so at least, and he’s usually right. You did forgive him that night he stood you up to take a girl home (Did they fuck? Did he kiss her? Would they go out? That night your mind was restless when he had left you at a bar alone, waiting for him for three hours. “It’s nothing”, you had said that night holding back your tears in the back of his bike, clutching onto his leather jacket, trying to make him a bit yours, just a little); you stayed when he shouted terrible things at you in an attempt to push out everyone in his life, when he truly feels like he’s going to get stabbed in the back by everyone – physically and emotionally – but you didn’t care (“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… You know you are not-?”, he had asked, voice trembling, small like a child against the corner of his living room. You were stroking his hair, hugging him. “I know”, you had mumbled against his head, tears threatening to dirty him); and even that time he had shouted at you in the middle of a family dinner you had said nothing, you forgave him first hour in the morning (“You are just always after my fucking ass, (Y/N)! Don’t you have a life or something?!” he had abruptly stood up, scaring you and making everyone else open their eyes in surprise. Jason had always had a soft spot for you; he had never made anything violent like that, and Tim had positioned himself in front of you as if fearing he would jump out on you. It had hurt him, but you had been borderline crying when you threw your napkin at him. You had quickly moved for your coat and had left home. He called you all night. You didn’t pick it up until morning came and had softly accepted his apology. Your eyes hurt from crying). This is probably why you feel entitled to say something so cruel, just like a dagger to his hurt.

—Well, you kind of said you wouldn’t pressure me so… —. And you are sure you will regret this the morning after, but it just rubs you the wrong way how he smiles. Like he doesn’t take it seriously, it’s another of your jokes.

—Are you stupid? What is your fucking problem?—. Your voice is truly hurt. You don’t cry; maybe there are no tears left and Jason has desensitized you these years. His rejections, harsh actions and words have strengthened your heart—. I was serious, Jason. I know you never-you don’t see me that way, but I wanted to try and love you. I really did and- _fuck_ , I can’t really believe you—. Oh, there are the tears; you quickly cover your face, and he moves, sits on the carpet. He makes an attempt to touch you, but you move—. Stop that. I’m okay. It’s just that-well, I always kind of knew you would never be interested in me that way, but I still tried. For three years straight. And maybe I thought at some point that you would consider it seriously at some point, would see that I have always been and will always be at your side. I just didn’t fully know you saw me as a joke.

You want to cry, but not in front of him. Your eyes are fixated on the flames, the way they move and can’t seem to be trapped in any type of pattern; you try to find it, since it generally calms yourself down. It’s a coping mechanism, and you realize that Jason is a bit like that too: someone that can’t be resolved or trapped into a simple formula. But you innocently thought you might be the one after all these years; you had stayed by his side, had comforted him, had loved him all those nights where he woke up in crying and in absolute terror… You had hugged him until he fell profoundly asleep, murmuring into his hair sweet nothings, comforting words, soft praises (“No, it’s okay, you are not underground. You are in your safe house, in Gotham. I’m (Y/N) and I love you. Everything is okay, you can go back to sleep, you are good. I love you, your family loves you. Just sleep, Jaybird. The sun will be up soon. Just rest.”); and hoped that it might have been as easy as him waking up and realizing he loves you. It had been a bit like that to you, and it had only grown stronger. But you are now sure that not once he has considered you like that.

—Hey. Hey, shit, I didn’t-no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come off that way, I really did give it some thought and-no, don’t cry. Please, (Y/N), look at me. Don’t cry, hm? Please?

Tears make him uncomfortable, but you can’t stop. You won’t stop. You are tired of accommodating yourself to him. And now he’s happy and in a good place, so you did what you promised, what you wanted to help with.

—Hey, look at me. Come on, please.

He grabs you by your chin, softly, like you are porcelain for the very first time in your life. It shocks you so much you stop crying; he sorts of smiles, but you can’t say. Your vision is blurred out by tears but the soft brush in your lips is unmistakable. You try to make your body react, give it back, but something feels terribly long even when he’s so careful and asks for permission into your mouth. You frown but concede slowly: enough so that his tongue can enter your mouth, can find your tongue to play with. It’s a slow dance, not a battle like you had once seen in the bar, when he thought you were gone and had brought that girl to the bathroom. It had shattered your heart, but you had convinced yourself he was merely letting it out of his system. His grip had meant to bruise her hips, and the need in his kiss like that of one that tries to put off a fire, you had told yourself on your way back, silent and feeling like shit. It didn’t mean nothing.

Did this then mean anything? You push him as you realize that it won’t, that it will only get more and more uncomfortable. And besides, thing have changed.

—Jay, stop—. You murmur, and for a moment think he might have not hear you: but when you are opening your mouth again and pushing him aside, it stops—. What are you doing? A stupid mistake that you will regret tomorrow and that will make me cry for another two months? Please, Jason, I thought we were over this. I thought you were over this.

“Over me clinging onto you desperately, lovingly”. His eyes try to search for yours, but you don’t concede, won’t reward him with the secret desire you had had for over three years. Maybe it will never stop, you will always love him like that.

—I just thought that I-

—Well you thought wrong. Stop playing with me. I have someone else.

You didn’t plan on telling him like that. Probably not ever, if you could avoid it. It wouldn’t probably last anyways; but you wanted it to work. You really did. He made you feel loved and secure; he made you feel like you were worthy, true and caring. Not overbearingly anxious, fake and never enough, which is what Jason made you feel most of the time. You hug your knees, tightly, and open your mouth; but Jason comes first.

—Is it-?

—Jason? (Y/N)? Are you there?

The door opens, and in comes Dick. Your eyes soften as you look at him, and quickly grab your heels. You don’t look at him in your way out, but he understands. Jason doesn’t move from his place in the fire, maybe too drunk or too overwhelmed – maybe it really is his mind playing tricks as he catches his brother’s eyes following the feminine figure that exits the room. But it might just be too that Dick cares way more for you than he does, even when you two are closer.

—Jason, just-—. He doesn’t know how to start, and he understands. It’s what Tim has been trying to say too—. Just don’ t mess with her. The last five years have been rough on everyone, especially you, I’m sure, but she has other problems in her life too. She hasn’t had it easy, and you just-you have been just taking advantage. And don’t you dare say you aren’t because I have been looking at the way she looks at you. And you are very aware of that too. So, don’t do it again, because I would hate to make the family choose between you and her. You already know who would win and you need us as much as we need you. Point is, stop.

The door closes as he leaves him alone, and Jason truly thoughts he has lost something precious that he didn’t know it was his in the first place. He really did take you for granted, and maybe it’s time to stop. Maybe you really are no good for each other.

**Author's Note:**

> SO, DUBIOUS ENDING. I was planning on making a continuation, two possible endings: Nightwing and Reader, how they came where they are right now and a happy ending and Jason and Reader, a redemption arch. My intent was never to picture him in a bad light, but I just think that things are too messed up at that point in time where he came back, thus his shitty attitude and reactions. I truly think he thinks he doesn’t deserve to be loved or loved by anyone. I will probably write the two endings at some point, but I would like to know which part people are interested on reading first. It will probably contain hurt/comfort smut in Jason’s case and in Nightwing’s something a bit darker but still sweet. I don’t know if I’ve made it like they were close during these years, but I believe that Reader and Dick have a close relationship (from which love was bound to blossom at some point or other). Thanks for reading!


End file.
